With Love from the Heart of my Bottom

April 28, 2008 at 12:30 pm (Drunk and disorderly, Sweet sticky things)

I was raised not to put much stock in material possessions. ‘Keeping up with the Joneses’, my parents called it. While I never really strove to slaughter the golden calf, I held on to what I had and took care of it. The theory being that if you maintained and didn’t abuse things, they would last forever.

My dad was a master at this. I have his harmonicas. I have his hammer from two centuries ago. (Late 1800s for you sticklers.) The razor I use is a Gillette from 1973 or so. I have a Wile E. Coyote figurine from Eastmoreland Hospital, circa 1968. (His tail is gone, but look what he’s been through!) I think you get the idea: It may not be much, but it’s mine, and I have grown attached to it.

Saturday I was given something I’ll keep forever.

It’s that time of the month, where my hair either requires a ballcap or a buzzcut. The weather was gorgeous, and with an abbreviated weekend I decided to cram in as much fun as possible. I tapped my stash of extra-strength happy pills, smoked a bowl and headed for Clairissa’s.

On the way to Clairissa’s, I stopped by the Yamhill Pub, the hangout of most of my co-workers. Picture what it would look like if the cast of Road Warrior took over the bar from Star Wars. I’d never seen the place without a near-riot going on, albeit a fun-lovin’ one. At that moment it was just the bartender and me . I ordered an Arrogant Bastard, chugged it in fifteen minutes, and crossed another item off my list. I can now say I’ve drank at the Yamhill Pub.

Clairissa’s shop is close to a mega-Freddy’s, so I multitasked. It was the last day to redeem Rewards coupons, and I had $8 worth. I needed a new wallet. The wallet that is about to die? I bought it in 1994, at a gun show. Confession: it’s not really a wallet. It was one of those tiny disco purses, a bit smaller than a paperback novel. (If I looked good in a short black dress, it would have made the perfect accessory.) I cut the string/strap off, and it’s been my ‘change purse’ ever since.

Fourteen years later, the zippers are all busted. The clamps that hold the zippers are busted off. The “leather” is more like plastic. The cloth containing the coins is thin. It’s time for a new one.

The wallet I found was covered with rhinestones. Clairissa has since explained that those are not rhinestones, more like fake cubic zirconium. (Redundant?) Whatever, it will do the trick, and it was free, thanks to the Rewards points. I got a funny look from the middle-aged woman at the register. Hmm…I wonder if she’d have said anything if I’d got the one with two hearts engraved on it instead?

When it came time for the haircut, I pulled out a surprise for Clairissa. During the store remodel some stuff was thrown away, including a bunch of mixer supplies. I came across a pink metal tin with cocktail salt inside. On that big pink label?

Cosmopolotan Rimmer. For those of you who don’t know what a rim job is, here’s a clue.

She gasped, laughed, thought for a second, and asked me, “If I gave this back to you with something inside, would you be offended?

“Of course not.”

She disappeared, returning with the tin. I shook it. It wasn’t pills or paper. I was stumped. “I’ll open it when I get home.”

She began cutting my hair while answering phone calls. She amused herself by giving me savage nipple-tweaks, resulting in yells that could only be good for business. (No bruises; I just looked.) As she was finishing the top of my head, she stopped. “Goddammit.”

There was an inch-long notch in my scalp, resembling a scar.

Clipper maintenance is nothing new. The bright blue electrical tape on the base, the plug, the Super Glue residue. These babies have earned their “classic” look.

“This is fucked.” She showed me where the electrical points are supposed to match up, the dried-blood-color of my hair clogging them, the frizzy copper ends at the base, the cracked jagged spot that amounted to a broken neck in the human world.

“They’re gone.”

She salvaged the blades, setting the rest of its carcass aside. The ‘you-just-killed-my-cat’ look on her face said it all. “Damn. I loved those clippers. Do you realize I’ve been using them since beauty school in 1996?”

“I’m sorry, hon. I *did* use conditioner this morning, and I never use con-“

“-bup bup bup. They are old as hell, and I’m glad it happened with you. It would have happened anyway.”

“Do you think if I’d skipped the conditioner-?”

“IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. Are you hungry?”

Honesty is the best policy. “Nope, but I’ll buy you a beer.”

Away to the pizza parlor we went.

* * *

Half a beer later, I looked at Clairissa. “Hey, I’m sorry. Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”

She sloe-eyed me. “Yeah, but you don’t say why.”

“It’s because you give me the love and affection I can’t seem to find anywhere else?”

“You know that if you were a girl I’d totally be doing you right now? It’s that whole ‘no-penis’ rule…”

“It’s okay. You give me a lot to think about late at night, wink wink.”

“Can I still be your girlfriend? We’ll make beautiful babies someday.”

I proposed a toast with what was left in the pounders. “Until someday…”

We clinked, she kissed me ever so lightly. It was just what I needed on this dark-mooded day.

Her phone rang, and the thought hung in the air.

It was time for her next appointment, who was napping on the futon in the waiting area at the shop. We returned, and I used the bathroom. Organizing my junk, I grabbed the rimming tin. I popped it open. Inside was a pair of jaguar-print panties.

“Really? For me?” I touched them, closed the lid out of respect, then remembered who I was dealing with and popped the tin back open. SNIFF. The scent was soft and delicate.

Her reaction was a Dick Cheney-like sneer, which evaporated into a soft smile. “Sorry, they’re clean. I could wear them for a couple of days if ya want… I’d be cool with that.”

The girl understands naughty boys.

So now I have a souvenir of a very personal nature. The only other pair of girl’s underwear I’ve kept are the first pair I took off my ex-wife. They’re in a shoebox in a storage bin in the back shed.

I have plans for Clairissa’s. She’s a willing model for my amateur photography habit. Thanks to digital processing, there isn’t the uncomfortable picking-up-the-pictures moment where the dowdy old gal at Freddy’s hands them over after just processing them. She’s never said anything, but I’m glad I am beyond using disposable cameras.

Now I have to lure Clairissa back to my cave, where we will create images of a girl with devilish horns, pitchfork and very little clothing. I’m envisioning an NC-17 version of Portlandia.

This could very well be the first time I’ve ever tried talking a girl back into her panties…

1 Comment

  1. Picasso's Nutsack said,

    Great Story….
    /*wipes tear from eye..

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